Ten Things You Need to Know About Your Chestnut Thoroughbred Mare

When I was about thirteen, I remember telling my mom with absolute certainty that I would NEVER ever own a chestnut Thoroughbred mare again.

Uh.

Sorry, thirteen year old self.

I've owned three. (Two for the moment, though all three are still on the farm..)

And over time, I've figured out the ten rules for getting along with your chestnut Thoroughbred mare...

1. You are only interesting when you come bearing treats, grain, hay, or some device to rub her with (curry combs, rub rags, long fingernails..)
   
2. Ask nicely and don't mess up her schedule or be prepared to suffer through crankiness for any small thing you ask for afterward.
   
3. NEVER under ANY circumstances forget what a beautiful, glorious creature she is and how incredibly lucky you are to be in her presence.
   
4. If you do happen to break #3 (and you will), you will be bucked off, bitten, stepped on, run over, or otherwise maimed within the next week to remind you of who exactly wears the pants in your relationship (and God help you if you mention she looks fat in them..).
   
5. Once a month, you might want to skip the riding. Unless, of course, you like the taste of dirt. Instead, I recommend massages with rub rags, bathes, and cookies. Lots of cookies.
   
6. Your chestnut Thoroughbred mare wants you to learn and grow.. That's why she balks at the trailer or tests the walls of her stall. Not only will it broaden your inventiveness but also your vocabulary!
   
7. She will paw, and no, it's not out of boredom. She's simply trying to remind you to be time savvy and hurry the hell up.
   
8. When she's ready to go, she's ready to go. So stop screwing around and get to it before you make her even crankier.
   
9. Her preferred pasture mates are other chestnut Thoroughbred mares, but if none are available, she will settle for doting geldings.
   
10. She loves you. No, really, she does. And once in a blue moon, she will look at you with soft eyes and floppy eyes. She'll lick you shoulder or nuzzle your fingers, and you'll know.

Well, it's either love or she needs a new salt block.

-- Girl

from top to bottom: Girl, 11 or 12, and Cow. Girl, 16 or 17, on Chunky and ponying Miss Manners. Girl, 15, and Barbie. Girl, 11 or 12, and Cow.

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It's a bird, it's a plane, it's... Barbie?!?!

It was one of those hot summer days where our boarders would show up with coolers of beer and outfits best described as questionable.

We really hadn't been doing much working. The Boss Mare had ridden one or two, and I'd been playing swap-a-pony in our pastures. You know what I mean.. When you have to move one horse, but end up trading around five others to make the move "smoother".

He pulled up in a Tahoe that screamed trashy, a fact punctuated by the loud rap music spilling from his speakers. I felt like I had just stepped into Pretty Woman, if Julia Roberts were bare-chested, beer-bellied, and barefoot and the saleswomen were clad in Spandex pants, tall boots, and grime.

I think it might have been the giant cross tattoo on his chest or the faint aroma of cigarettes and weed that clung to his worn-out sweatpants, but he stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Are you guys missing a horse?"
"No, I don't think so." The Boss Mare chimed from her perch.
"Well, this horse with a mask and cape just came through my front yard."

Every head snapped to stare at me. I stood up. Barbie is allergic to fly bites and wears nose to tail protection almost all the time. "That would be mine."

So began the frantic search for Barbs. Tahoe Boy drove me around our neighborhood, searching for my disappearing horse. He explained that she had just strolled through his yard, past his faux pit bull (I say faux because this sucker was clearly some Mastiff/Boxer variation labeled "pit bull" to sound cool..).

The Boss Mare rang me up. "We found her! She's on the other side of our neighbor!"

In other words? A briar patch.

I thanked Tahoe Boy, climbed out of the SUV, and raced my way past a trailer. I picked my way across a field littered with beer cans, baby diapers, and used fireworks. Amid the remnants of a redneck Fourth of July, Barbie had left her thoughts of how the other side lived.

I have never been so thrilled to find a pile of poop.

Then I saw her, complete with "cape and mask". I started through the patch, stringing words together as fluently as a sailor. By the time I reached her, the blood had already reached my socks. She was bumping against the barbwire fence, and as I slung her halter on, she caught her hoof through the bottom strands.

Luckily, one of our boarders helped keep her calm on the other side of the fence. I got her sorry behind out unscathed, and then we began the real journey.

I'm not sure if the Boss Mare has really been around OTTBs much because when I mentioned bringing the trailer up, she promptly told me I could walk Barbie home. Let's do some math, shall we?

1 very hot Thoroughbred+ stress + more stress + being led away from the most direct route home + 1 faux pit bull + a narrow street + a meth house = GIANT bad idea.

Barbie is not fond of cars or dogs, in particular big ones who think she'd make a nice "natural" alternative. And we all know from the Giant Pasture incident that the idea of walking a horse back gives me chills, especially when we are on a public road.

We made it passed the dog, down the hill, around the meth house, and passed the field of foxtrotters. I have never been more thankful for a lack of cars or a chain across a pony's nose.

Finally home, I assessed the damage. Two little cuts, not a rip in her blanket. Of course, she's dripping in sweat and stress, but that's not long term.

"She must have gone over the back fence." The Boss Mare contemplated. ".....You weren't exagerrating."

Like I've said before, Barbie likes to pasture-hop.
Literally.

-- Girl

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Barbie's Gone Royal and Redheaded!

Barbie, Barbie.

She's one long-legged, hip swinging broad. A daughter of Storm and a Half, a granddaughter of Jetting Along, she's got the bloodlines of a Thoroughbred princess.

15.3 hands, the color of a polished penny..

When she's in good weight and groomed, it's enough to make your heart swoon. You may make an offering to her loveliness, a peppermint or a bit of carrot, but don't hold your breath. She is convinced all people are trying to poison her. (Don't you dare forget her Highness's ancestors faced such possibilities.)

Expect to spend a week convincing her the carrot isn't not cyanide.

If her pasturemates are less than suitable, she will leave and look for more satisfying companionship. She prefers those who are also chestnut and Thoroughbred or pony geldings who actually appreciate her beauty. Like the pop princesses of our day, she will pasture-hop until finding a group that will dote on her accordingly.

Those lucky enough to ride her have to handle her at her worst to get her at her best. Her best is akin to Marilyn Monroe in "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes", light and airy with a vibrant edge. And her worst can make Ozzy Osbourne look like a saint. However, two steps into her swinging Mae West walk will send your head spinning and your heart lusting for more.

As I freewalked her around, one trainer stopped to stare. "She walks like a hooker!"

She is rather indifferent about her humans and could very well do without them unless they want to massage her or rub her down with a rag like a new Camaro.
In which case, she will stand for hours.
Isn't it nice when humans realize their real purpose in life?



-- Girl

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